


Reacher

by cripple



Category: Doom (Video Games)
Genre: Alternate Canon, Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Bromance, Gen, Gore, Gritty, Heavy Angst, Implied/Referenced Rape/Non-con, Mental Disintegration, Mild Hurt/Comfort, Original Character(s), Post-Traumatic Stress Disorder - PTSD, Psychic Violence, Religious Conflict, Revenge, Survivor Guilt, Underage Prostitution, Unresolved Romantic Tension
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2017-02-24
Updated: 2017-05-20
Packaged: 2018-09-26 15:35:04
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Major Character Death, Rape/Non-Con, Underage
Chapters: 4
Words: 16,676
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/9908942
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/cripple/pseuds/cripple
Summary: Witness the story of three friends as they battle their inner demons and the real demons hiding in the dark.





	1. Introduction

**Author's Note:**

> I really don't know what's driven me to publish this here, but probably the shortage of long, "proper" fics in Doom universe counts; plus, for some reason I think this one deserves a bit of attention.  
> All of this was written in the period between 2014 and 2015, then abandoned halfway. I thought about translating it into English and publishing for quite some time, so there it finally is.  
> First, this fic features an immense build-up, taking as much as a third of the whole story, and the actual Doomy part of this takes up a half at best, so be prepared.  
> If the feedback is positive, I know I'll begin thinking about continuing this, picking up where I left off.  
> Second, I apologise for the quirky dialog formatting since I don't have much insight into how it works in English language, and I'd really appreciate it if somebody agreed to help with proofreading.

**Introduction**

\- Duty and glory, honour and bravery. Everybody has a special place in their heart for these words. A goof will read about that in a book and forget it promptly, preferring his being as despicable and wretched until the very end. A sneaky bureaucrat won't give a damn about anything at all save bills. But I wouldn't follow their steps. Starting in my earliest, most vulnerable childhood, my father did his best to raise me like a man and like a soldier he once was. He had inspired perseverance and will in me, forged my courage and good conscience, toughened my body and hardened my spirit. That's why I ended up where I am today. I have both an opportunity and a responsibility to pass his wisdom to you. It's never done by shouting sense - or beating it - into a child, unless you want a personal servant. My father managed to raise me with sheer inspiration, and even back then I knew what it was worth. I did sincerely respect the man. So when he died, he left me with nothing but an obligation to make the same of my son what he made of me. Believe me, I'd been striving hard for it. When I look at you, my heart tells me that I did everything right, and that's the best delight a father may deserve. Now that you know it, I'm asking you to remember it, and, perhaps, pass it to your own children some day. 

Such were the parting words for the seventeen years old Martin Ingwehr, who was leaving his tiny provincial town for education in a military academy. Martin shook his ginger head cheerily and promised his father to do just as he'd told. The older man smiled and patted him on the shoulder. They stood in a dark and deserted airport hall. It was late in the night: everything outside was concealed with a thick blue veil, disrupted in some places with acid green and yellow lights of diners. Martin's father approached the window and inhaled the cold damp air. 

\- I'm sorry for not talking to you more about this earlier. We really ought to.  
\- As if there's something to be sorry for, - Martin reassured. - Please, take really good care of mum while I'm there, will you?  
\- Certainly, far and away. Since that's where you're going, right?  


They laughed softly while a tractor pulled a small ramp to the plane.

\- So, what are your actions once you're there? - father asked, trembling slightly in the cold.  
\- Find a room somewhere, get things running with the admission... I know the drill, really. It's gonna work out. And I have money for a ticket back, just in case.  
\- There's a good chance you won't need it, - father winked.  
\- If that's how it goes, I'll surely need a little reward for myself in turn. You know, celebrating success.  


A monotonous mumble announced the boarding.

\- I know it seems silly to you, but I really can't help worrying about you, Mart.  
\- Try not to. I'll write you a letter the second I step back on the ground.  
\- I'll be expecting.  


Martin yawned, shook his father's hand and began his groggy stride to the ramp, stumbling on the steps.

\- Good luck!

When the red head disappeared in the fuselage, Robert Ingwehr headed towards the exit but stopped halfway, turned to face the plane, sighed heavily and lit up a cigarette.


	2. It's Your Decision

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Things start to get interesting in Martin's life as he adapts to the new ways and faces some uncertainty.

**It's Your Decision**

Martin found his cosy little seat near the tail and fell fast asleep in an instant upon buckling up. He always took his time. One would have little luck waking him up with a cannon, so the loud droning hum and the seat's hard surface were no problem at all, and the man next seat felt free to toss litter around Martin. The stuard who cleaned it up spilled a glass of hot tea on Martin, spoiling one of his best shirts. When the plane finally touched down and people started gathering at the exit, Marty found himself shoved away from his handbag and had to elbow his way through the jumble to take it back.

The taxi driver, asked by Martin to take him to the cheapest flaphouse available, wheeled around the city for solid thirty minutes, apparently not hurrying while the counter ticked. Not that Martin noticed. He used that time to take a closer look at the city he had just got himself knee-deep into - Jackson. The thought of it becoming his home for the next five years, and that's at the very least, seemed strange.

Naturally, Martin's modestly sized and mannered town, Charlestown, seemed like a couple of forest cabins in comparison to the grand megapolis that Jackson was. "Forest cabins" do a good job describing Charlestown: the city was surrounded by a huge area of woods, which were the only thing that allowed Charleston to have a budget somehow. A century's worth of export of wood had earned Charlestown a "Wooden Capital of the State" award, which was seemingly made of sawdust and looked like a caveman's axe. The mayor humbly refused it, giving no comments.

Charlestown's local sightseeing involved the City Hall, surrounded by a few sear-looking flowerbeds, a tiny market comprised of tents where some immigrants from Central America lived, and girls who never preferred a skirt to trousers. Jackson's everyday life featured strolls in a park the size of almost six football fields, entire skyscrapers of just the stores, housing everything from compasses and spoons to cars and plaster. Girls were dressed as if there was a law against covering more than a half of one's body (Martin admitted to himself that was one of the first things to get his attention).

The driver took a turn to a shady-looking alley and moved towards the dead end of it, where the car stopped. If one looked behind the dingy wall there, he'd see the same street where Martin took the cab.

\- That's it, - the driver said, tapping his finger on the window. Martin shifted away from it.  
\- Great, where is... it?

The driver waved his hand at a two-storey concrete box with an hotel sign in the distance. Martin looked around. The airport was clearly visible from the main road.

\- Am I missing something or was there a need to take a ride through half the city to end up here? Are you playing that trick with everybody?  
\- Yeah, now pay up, thank me for the trip and get out.

The door opened and Martin fell out, pushed outside by the man's hairy hand.

\- Wish you a good time in Jackson! - he shouted when the car was about to disappear behind a corner.

Martin got up and dusted his clothes.

\- Wish you break a leg!

"I sure have a good time getting screwed over so far. Well, I guess that one was a... screwdriver? Glad nobody can hear this."

The guesthouse's hall was a rather thorough representation of an atrium. The walls had two rows of doors, seperated by stairs. The entire first floor consisted of a reception desk and a couple of "elite apartments", which most probably meant they had a colour TV as a bonus. Sunlight flooded the room, streaming through the pair of windows to the sides of the entrance and revealing clouds of dust and whirling flies. They crawled lazily around the flower pots with plants which hadn't been watered for a while and were scattered across the room like that would conceal its filthiness. A few tiles were missing in the drab-coloured floor, a few more were glued back to their place, obvious from the glue stench. Behind the desk sat a middle aged bald man, dressed in a wool jacket which served more as a dust collector. He was busy counting greasy notes. Whenever he stumbled upon a particularly crumpled or battered bill, he put it inside of a heavy book to his left.

Martin reached inside his handbag to ensure the money was still there and sighed with relief. The move of such magnitude sent a twirl of dust flying up. Martin sneezed, and only then did the receptionist notice him.

\- Are you in need of something? - he asked with a snuffle so heavy his voice seemed to come from outside. - A room?  
\- Yeah? Sure, most definitely.  
\- You don't come here for anything else. There are diners for eating and bathhouses for washing.

Martin frowned.

\- I think I got that. May I just occupy a tiny room for a couple of days and get out of your sight immediately after?  
\- You checking in alone?  
\- Yeah.  
\- Then it's alright by me. Couples usually get noisy, you know, towards the evening. In the unorthodox sense.

"Gonna get out of my way to hook up with somebody and get noisy, just so you'd be happy", Martin thought.

\- It's fifty bucks a night.

Martin jumped up a bit.

\- Come on now? I can fly home once a week at this rate.  
\- Fine, make that fifteen, but quit whining already, - the receptionist sighed wearily, signed a bill, handed it to Martin and reached out for the money. Martin, recalling the taxi driver's grin, demanded that he paid upon checking out. The receptionist's discontent almost manifested in the bill ripped in halves. The deal was finally settled at conditions that Martin would pay for the day each morning, and the two were glad to get each other off their chests.

There was still enough spark in Ingwehr to take a relaxed walk around and get to know the surroundings once he'd put his clothes in a drawer. But the room turned out to not feature a drawer. What it featured was a portable wireframe bed with a ragged mattress and somebody's smell rubbed in it. Martin threw his handbag on it and sat down, stumbling on a plank sticking out from the floor. The view of the room alone took the rest of the day's vigor away from him, and he stretched across the bed, his head dizzy with the thoughts about what to do next. Saying that it seemed easier the day before would be an understatement. Martin couldn't say that the new surroundings had thrown him off-balance - on the contrary, the excitement powered him throughout the day. What was it then? Was he questioning his potential, his worth deep inside?

He'd heard stories of people who changed the ways of their lives like underwear, but these people just seemed like fools. Now he was staring squarely at the ceiling and wondering whether the decision was truly his own.

"Waste the money, return home and take the shame? Not my style", Martin thought, the resolve finally springing him back to his feet. He approached the window and inspected his blurry reflection thoroughly. A bright, willed-looking face, definitely not the worst set of muscles. Eyes sported a sign of good sense.

"Doubts are not a helper. If I know it's good for me, then I'll damn make sure it will."

\- Cheer up, Marty, and show 'em who's boss! - he said to the reflection. The reflection smiled. Knocking on the door startled Ingwehr: the receptionist stood on the threshold, swinging a set of keys around.  
\- Not much intent to lock your den? - he snarked, throwing a tiny rusty key to Martin. He caught it in mid-air, picked up his handbag and followed the receptionist out of the room, locking it firmly. There was a lot to be done.

* * *

The red-headed, scrawny guy strolled along the pavement; his deliberately purposeful walk earned some passers-bys' grins. The sun was high in the sky, but that was not the only reason for drops of sweat on Martin's forehead. It seemed to him like he was spectating himself. A walk along a boulevard, a turn to an alley. There it is, a building in antique style, so unimaginably wide that a small house could be put inside one of its columns. The main academy building. To the left and right of the entrance two statues of soldiers in centuries old uniform stood, almost intimidating, if not for the fact that one of them missed fingers on his foot. The cornice was framed by a delicate, sophisticated ornament, the sight of which induced lightheadedness. Into the arch above was carved a sign so pompously beautiful that Martin couldn't read a single letter. While he eyed the building in awe, his legs carried him across the square and to the tall staircase.

"Okay, splendid, I'm here and I'm good. Now how should I even talk to the commission?", he thought while pulling a heavy wooden door almost four times as tall as him and finally entering.

\- Good afternoon, - he said to a pleasant woman behind a desk right across. - I'd like to enter the Jackson Military Academy.  
\- That's meritorious, young man. You're standing near the cloakroom. You may leave your handbag here if you want?  
\- Thanks, uh, I'll leave it with myself. So, who can I speak to, regarding...  
\- Oh, the admissions offices are on the third floor. Can't miss them, the signs are all over.

Martin mumbled a thank-you again and ran out on the staircase. Covering the distance in ten giant leaps, he found himself in a spacious hall, freshly whitened.

"Alright, introducing yourself is always a good start. On the other hand, so is stating my business. But hey, it's the admissions offices, what other kind of business can I even come here for?"

Hello, I'm Martin Ingwehr.

"Oh, just get out already, do yourself a huge favour."

Good day, my name is Martin Ingwehr and I would like to study in your academy.

"A lot of people would like to enter Jackson Military Academy."

Good afternoon, my name's Martin and I'd like to enter this academy.

"Better somewhat? In fact, it's not a big concern, just don't go with that first varia..."

\- Hello, I'm Martin Ingwehr, - he blurted out, entering a bright wide hall. It was devoid of any furniture save a chair and a table, three tough-looking young men behind it, in dress uniform and pens stuck behind the right ear. Apparently the visitor has interrupted an intriguing conversation, since all three turned to face him synchronously and now stared at him with no expression. Martin saw one of the fellows open his mouth to let off a snarky remark and decided to precede him with a question.  
\- I'm here to enter the academy. So the admissions office is here, right?  
\- You could say that, in some way, - said another fellow. - Now, if you need info on the interview schedule and all that, I say you come later in the evening, when the senior commission returns from... when it returns.  
\- Been there know that, really, I just want to settle that as soon as possible. If possible. Ay-ass-ay-pee.

"Im-possible?"

\- It's just "asap", if you want people to actually understand, - the third man intervened. - When the commission gets back, they'll inspect your papers all you want, they...  
\- Yeah, I got the papers, right here, in my bag.  
\- ...uh, gonna check the photo on your ID?..  
\- And the ID.

"Hey, you look like you may have eyes! Could it be that you actually are able to check the photo too?"

\- Listen, pal! - the guy with the opened mouth finally uttered. - We're advisors, we're not supposed to even discuss tuition matters, let alone register you anywhere.  
\- Well, I certainly didn't hear much good advice in our exchan...

There's little doubt that one of the advisors would eventually throw Marty out one way or another, but the loud sound of door knocking changed the course of events slightly. Without asking, an aged, sharply dressed man with a bit of noble gray in his hair stepped over the threshold.

\- What this noise is all about? - he inquired in a quiet, but incredibly firm voice. - I've put you here just an hour ago, and you already managed to let out a brawl!  
\- Like we have a brawler, - the second advisor shrugged.  
\- This guy wants to enter, - the third one explained, - but brings no application, financial state's unclear, the whole thing looks...  
\- Alright, enough of this, - the man snapped out. - Stay put until the senior commission returns from...

He stopped mid-sentence and instead opened the door, inviting Martin to leave the hall with him.

\- Until it returns, - Martin muttered loudly enough for the advisors and hurried to follow the elder man out.  
\- I presume that you really do want to study here, - this phrase came out more like an assertion. Martin nodded.  
\- Yeah, yessir, and you must be...  
\- Mr. Jackson, head of academy.  
\- I'm honoured to meet you, sir, - Martin reached out with his hand involuntarily. Jackson shook it without manifesting a bit of wariness. - My name is Martin Ingwehr.

Jackson put a hand on his shoulder and started walking, leading Martin somewhere.

\- So you actually did not bring an application letter? - he asked.  
\- Didn't. But I have to, correct?  
\- Correct. But, seeing as I'm the chief of the whole process and also a straight down-to-business person, I'm sure we can save each other valuable time if we start out right away and worry about significant, but indeed lesser details earlier. That letter would be a matter of minutes to you. Now can I know what influenced your choice of our academy, Martin?

Later, Ingwehr could almost swear he'd hear a hint of strangely specific kind of impatience. Right there and then though, he couldn't care less.

\- What I know is this is one of the most respected places one can get military education at. I was also told that things, uh, look very bright in perspective for the graduates, especially in comparison to other academies. I'm ready to devote my life to defend my country. Professionally.  
\- Sounds serious. Frankly speaking, almost every other boy gets carried away speaking about honour and glory. Sometimes it's family tradition, it's "in their blood", - a faint smile appeared on Jackson's face and faded the next moment.

Martin complimented himself mentally for not saying just that, even though his mood called for it.

\- Assuming your papers are okay, you'll have to endure the boot camp. I assure you, it's not the right place for the faint-hearted. Every applicant will pass tests of fitness, psychological state and intellect. How many push-ups can you do?  
\- Fifty, - Martin slipped from under Jackson's hand and positioned himself on the floor to start.  
\- Just not here, I'll take your word for it at this moment. My hope is that you don't pass out from seeing blood?  
\- No, sir.  
\- Bothered by a little timidness? - Jackson stared into his soul.  
\- I was very afraid of the dark as a child, sir.

Jackson laughed.

\- So the sense of humor is in the right place, isn't it? If you're eager to hear my assessment, which I suppose you are, I'd say that you'll pass the tests alright, judging by our earlier experience. But again, have no delusions about what this place is. Only so many missteps are forgiven, - Jackson made a pinching gesture.

Afterwards, he went into detail about the correct procedure of admission. He appeared to be quite interested in Martin's plans regarding the tuition, but not any more than Ingwehr would expect a man in charge of such a facility to. Martin explained that the tuition matters were all set on his side, but his preference was to pay some part of it with his military service after graduation, if such a choice was even possible; turned out it was. At last, their walk ended right at the front door - Jackson had been leading Martin to the exit all along.

\- All in all, what I said should be enough to let you not get lost in what will be happening. One more thing, don't put on your best clothes, - he said, eyeing Martin more closely. - Perhaps you have more questions?  
\- In fact, sir, I couldn't help but wonder about your surname.  
\- Yes, Jackson. All clear now?  
\- It's the city's name.

Jackson smiled again.

\- Let's say that one of my distant ancestors indeed helped to found this town and gave it his name. Six generations have passed since.  
\- Awesome, - could Martin say. He waited a bit more for something, but then springed up on his feet, gave Jackson a military salute, much to the latter's fatherly frowning, and walked away.

Almost immediately upon entering his guesthouse room Martin took what belongings he'd left there and hurried away, leaving a pile of change to the receptionist. Ingwehr couldn't deny himself the pleasure of slamming a door so hard that a street light hanging above it flickered a few times. The city awaited him; he had just enough time to take the longest walk he ever wanted, ogle expensive cars he'd never seen, inspect every mall he could find, rich with cutting-edge tech, fancy clothes and endless entertainment, find a couple of part-time pals and make small talk with them about city life, perhaps even have a cup of coffee in a certain cafeteria so much praised by everybody. Martin had also laid his eye on a skyscraper of almost infathomable height, with a definitely gorgeous view from up top. Darkness slowly descended into the streets from above, the moon's mellow light appeared in a thin fog, surrounded by countless blinking stars. Martin inhaled the frosty, fresh air and started on his way.

Later he thought a lot about what exactly did happen at the academy when he first met Jackson. A tiny source of anxiety in the back of his head wouldn't leave him be. One second he was completely unsure about his fate, another it was all set, and this transition seemed jarring, almost painfully suspicious to Martin's mind. Nevertheless, he was fully content with his position right from the start, his mentors never did anything to arouse such emotions again, and since Ingwehr couldn't pinpoint what exactly seemed wrong to him, if it even did, he decided it was best to not occupy his mind with lingering uncertainty and get busy with more down-to-earth matters instead. That's what everyone did. If everyone did it, Martin did it.


	3. Tough Luck

**Tough Luck**

The academy's contingent has always been noted for exceptional camaraderie and solidarity, which came either from hierarchy or friendship, depending on where one looked. Martin, however, was not too eager to dive into socializing with his squadmates, which seems like the right word for the attendants: the academy was regarded as a subdivision of the city's garrison station, and the cadets were both juridically and casually treated as more or less soldiers. This arrangement allowed for quite a few privileges for the cadets. Firearms were handled nonchalantly by the personnel starting from the second day, absence of ammo the only thing keeping them from shooting (even though that wasn't always true). Naturally, seeing a weapon stopped being an unusual sight from day three.

The wide range of subjects cadets took would put a lot of elite colleges to shame. Casual visits to the shooting range, a specialized hand-to-hand combat course, intense physical conditioning, an all-around approach to tactics and general technique of firefights, planning and strategy of large-scale warfare were all schooled with rigid military discipline, which was a myth confirmed. Rumors about the merry kind of cadets who'd preferred to spend their time in pubs and cathouses died down. Martin envied anybody who could free up at least an hour and a half for R&R as innocent as this.

Speaking of the shooting range, the academy's status allowed instructors to generally disregard every limit on ammunition spending there could be. The cadets used pistols, small arms, rifles, both assault and sniping varieties, shotguns and machine guns like brushing their teeth. Once or twice a month, they were handed explosive weaponry. It didn't take long for Martin to understand the necessity of a dozen miles' distance from the shooting range to any habitable territory. He was taught to shoot from standing, crouching and prone stances, including postures twisted beyond any comprehension; he shot on the run, shot backing down, shot from behind corners, from all types of cover imaginable, out of trenches and foxholes. On his second year, Martin's instructors started waking his squad up in the middle of the night from time to time and conducted firing drill exercises in pitch black dark. This was just the first step to hitting a target blindly, the sound of it being the sole clue, which Martin did rather remarkably by his third year. On his lucky days, he'd hit his target not even bothering to peek out of cover. Sniper rifle handling was a special paradise in its own. Martin developed a good understanding of how bullet and wind speed, time of the day and season, temperature, atmospheric pressure, as well as his location on the globe were all factors in his bullet's trajectory. At their finest, top seven sharpshooters in regards to their longest shot were all Jackson's alumni. Jackson's cadets were sometimes called "jacks" in between each other for the briefness of it, even though they took major offense if an outsider did that, evidently, for a joke gone wrong ("What do you call a Russian jack?").

The number one sport in Jackson was hand-to-hand combat, and one of a peculiar variety. Jacks never particularly stood out with the eye-candy kind of physique. In majority, they were lean and fairly thin; a lot boasted scrawny arms with bold veins stretching all over. Any rookie bodybuilder would beat them. Visually. When a jack was forced into hand-to-hand, the room started to fill with their opponents' unconscious bodies. Cadets engaged in a fight with baffling confidence and frightening method. The enemy's mass and fitness were taken out of the equation: the cadet would aim at his throat, clap his ears, kick his groin to put him out of action for good. If he'd caught the enemy's arm by that point, that meant a short trip right into the wall head first. It was the opposite of fair, but it worked, and it terrified everybody who'd tasted it once. Then there was the fact that even in a move set like that, several attacks were completely forbidden to be practiced, being restricted to do-or-die situations. Yes, that's how they were referred to in the manuals.

On rare occasions that he did have spare time, Martin didn't hesitate to write a letter to his family first. His father wasn't quite satisfied with the fact that he wouldn't see his son at home for more than seven years potentially, not counting any leaves, but acknowledged his own part in that. Small things aside, Martin's parents had always been supportive of him, shared his joy with everything he'd accomplished, and that helped him to carry on. On other days, Martin would check the inbox promptly and go to a movie with a handful of fellow cadets. He found great enjoyment in historical features. Something never failed to capture his attention as Achilles dashed right into the heart of battle fearlessly, or when a squad of soldiers in a century old uniform left their trenches for a glorious screaming rush to eliminate the enemy. Whenever the cinema had no new features, Martin would unload his stress via some working out freestyle. It wasn't long before he discovered another adherent of such a pastime.

He was a rather short, tan-skinned fellow with prominent latino features. He was always shaved closely and sported a short, neat mohawk. If Martin was tall and thin, that guy was the opposite. Whenever they acknowledged each other's presence with a brief stare contest, Martin would pay quite some attention and soon noticed that his peer had a habit of following Martin's training program precisely. Ingwehr presumed that the guy couldn't assemble his own program for some reason and didn't see a need to point anything out. In fact, they'd never dropped a word for each other and left the sports complex for their respective blocks shortly before supper time.

As the yearly PFTs approached, the mood in the academy became increasingly uneasy. Jackson usually allowed for a solid three-week leave after the tests had been over with. Martin's intention was to stand apart by scoring at least for second class of the three which were used in the academy as a measure of fitness. Naturally, his training started to intensify; same was true for his silent companion. As much as Ingwehr hated it, he wasn't completely confident in his abilities, which made him spectate others frequently as they tried to do their best. That was when he made a puzzling discovery: the latinos quite apparently made a point of doing exactly one rep more that Martin had, in any exercise. He'd pull himself up twenty times in a row, until his fingers released the bar completely involuntarily - his companion pulled up exactly twenty one time and hopped off. Martin pushed up seventy times and bit the dust - his fellow pushed up seventy one time. Interestingly, he kept up this procedure even after Martin started to increase his statistics.

Once, on a hot and dry day, Martin had a fit of poor judgement and decided it was a great time for a 10-mile run. Dressed in full combat gear, he jogged willingly through the first nine and decided to scrap the last, thinking that he surely would push himself to the limit at the actual PFT. When he started to walk groggily, almost breathing out steam, a familiar latino guy, who undoubtedly tailed Martin from start to finish, sprinted by and stopped in what Martin could swear was almost exactly one meter ahead of him. The guy turned his head and shot Martin a wink, and he snapped.

\- Great running, - he muttered and spit on the grass.  
\- Doing my best.

For a moment they just walked together, listening to each other's heavy breathing.

\- How do you even manage that? - Martin asked the question he'd been contemplating for solid two weeks.  
\- Manage what?  
\- You're always doing just a rep more than me, no use denying it. What's up with that, are you stating something?

The brows on the tan face flew up in surprise.

\- No, what's up yours? I've been doing what I can, should I excuse myself for that?

Martin's ears almost started to tingle as his face barely blushed, but his fellow grinned and blurted:

\- If anything, it's always you who tails me just one rep behind!

Martin laughed and shoved the runner to the side gently.

\- Not making a fool of me, no sir.

He raised his hands, as if surrendering.

\- Well, I might just be telling a secret to you, but there's this concept of a healthy diet, which you may or may not have heard of. Consume a rye crisp a day and you'll start to look like one. Really though, have a look at your arms.

Martin obliged. After his routine, his arms looked like a fishnet.

\- All bones and veins, huh?  
\- It's not like I'm against veins. They've never looked that pumped, in fact.  
\- My advice, your decision.

They made their way to the finish line in silence when something occurred to Martin.

\- But what about pull-ups? I'd be lucky to do just one with stumps like yours, - he pointed at the plump tan arm. The guy didn't respond and turned away. It took Martin three times to repeat himself and one serious warning to tear the runner's pinkies off for him to finally yield.  
\- If you swing legs like I do, you'll as well be lucky to do full eighty, - he grinned once again. - Alright, that's enough small talk. Meet me in the dining room today. I'm going to teach you proper diet.

"You kidding me, that sounded like something off of a stag reel", Martin thought, wiping sweat off his forehead as they parted. No matter how silly the conversation felt in retrospect, he couldn't have known that he'd just met a true battlemate, which one doesn't stumble upon every two steps.

* * *

As hungry as he was, Martin couldn't deny himself the pleasure of a fresh shower. He hung out his clothes to dry after washing them in his room's sink like he'd always done, since clothes were taken to laundry once in two weeks and every uniform had to be used to its fullest. It wasn't until six in the evening that he was plotting his way through the crowd, tray with a plate full of rice and chicken in his hands. While looking for a seat, he quickly noticed a podgy hand waving him from a distance.

Upon finally sitting down, Ingwehr nodded as a greeting. To the left of his peer there sat a cadet with thick and short dark hair, which smoothly transformed into prominent stubble on his cheeks and chin. He nodded in return and inspected Martin coldly with his deep brown eyes.

\- So the name's Ricardo, make it Rico, - Martin's acquaintance was as quick to talk as to eat, and his words came out in a mumble. - This here is Preston, former schoolmate. Know each other for many years.

Martin shook Preston's hand and introduced himself. The conversation stalled for a moment as the company hurried to alleviate their hunger. Ricardo was the first to leave his tray empty, and a long chain of questions followed immediately.

\- Boy, you are putting in a lot of effort for those PFTs now, are you?..

Ingwehr had a prompt flashback to three months of intense work.

\- ...Wanna become a first class? Which specialization you gonna choose?  
\- First class would be charming, but I'm falling behind just thirty more push ups, - he shrugged and was interrupted immediately.  
\- Like any of that matters in actual combat situation. Tell you what, first class is just a fishbait for the graduates.  
\- But I haven't given much thought to specializations yet. A marksman sounds tremendous, but it's probably too early to figure anything on the first year.  
\- A marksman? My dad was a marksman in the Marines. Oh damn, wrong word, still IS a marksman in the Marines, - Rico exclaimed, turning his head as if on lookout for any marines in the area. - Now I'm really fond of engineering.

Martin thought momentarily of Rico charging into enemy entrenchments with a Gatling gun and suppressed a laugh.

\- Gear slut, - Preston muttered, much to the amusement of his friend.  
\- I'd suspect the requirements for engineers are a tad lower, aren't they? - Martin asked.  
\- They are, but the worst way to fight off a trigger-happy AT grunt is to wave your A+ grade table at him.  
\- That, - Rico nodded. - I mean, I don't want to get left behind the second we start running away ingloriously and dishonoredly. So tell Marty what's your choice again, _lieuftenant Mute?_

Preston took his time to chew his bite and replied:

\- Doesn't matter a lot. What's more on my mind is whether I'll get into spec op forces. You know, after Jackson threw together a nifty, flattering report there's not really any choice after all.  
\- Whatever, just wake me up when you turn into a wolf or something, with all the training there, - Rico said nonchalantly, earning a shove in the side. - So you're going to climb the ranks for long, Mart?  
\- It's two years at least. Part of my, uh... payment arrangement with Mr. Jackson?  
\- He's surely going to still leave you some money for food, isn't he?

Martin choked on his rice.

\- I don't suppose he'd have offered if he's planning to starve me to death in advance. Oh, come on now, don't screw with me. Soldiers do get regular meals.  
\- So then it was he who'd offered, - Rico mumbled and went completely silent for the second time today. Ricardo took the best from the kind of people who chatted nonstop and the kind that knew a lot. This made him an excellent conversation partner in the first half-hour of talking. His lively demeanor originated partially from his tirelessness and undying fascination with a lot of things. Martin imagined that Rico spent days on the streets as a kid, taking in as much of the world as he could, just like a sponge.

The three finished their meal in silence.

\- Alright, I think I'm done, - Ingwehr was just about to take the tray away.  
\- See you again, - Rico shook Martin's hand, accidentally driving his into the table in the process. - Hurry up, Pres, the bar's not gonna wait for us.  
\- If Preston won't come to the bar, the bar must go to Preston, - he burbled through his portion of chicken.

Martin was gently tapping his mouth with a napkin.

\- You're going some place, - he said.  
\- A bar, - Rico replied.  
\- Well, good luck, since I can't really figure how will you manage leaving the academy, getting pissed and going back in an hour after the evening shooting.  
\- No saying it'll be just an hour.

Martin sat back onto his chair.

\- Looks like a penalty 30-miles race with a sack of bricks on your back doesn't quite frighten?

He'd just described the first and the only penalty inflicted on cadets for misdemeanor of that category. The next measure was discharge.

\- The scheme's been settled for ages, if you're in doubt. Go through with the shooting, get to the city centre and back, gift the friendly sentry a bottle of vermouth for keeping his, er, mouth shut, sneak into the barracks through the window and that's basically it, - Rico described and remembered, - just, uh, no telling that to anybody, or Preston and I won't exactly be happy.  
\- Afraid it's too late, - Martin smiled and made a phone calling gesture with his hand. After knowing Rico this much, he had little doubt he'll get crushed under a meteor rain by complete accident conveniently summoned by Rico, if the truth ever came out. - Sounds tricky. I'm unlucky to have a bed on the third story.  
\- Ours are on fourth, - Rico said and anticipated the question. - The rope's in the rain gutter.

Rico's boasting was all too apparent for Martin.

\- Ric, this comes out, and I won't move your legs at the race for you, - said Preston, whose eyes were getting progressively wider with every secret let out by Rico and could now compete with a camera's lenses. - Which is probably too good an opportunity to learn about keeping your mouth closed anyway.  
\- But come on now, Marty looks like a friendly guy, - Rico excused. - Bet he's not against keeping company for us.  
\- Oh no, exclude me, - Martin blabbered. - It's just two days until PFTs start, I have to be sure I'm at my best.  
\- It's your decision. Remember though that best times are often result of worst decisions.

"Meaningless meaningful phrase to invite me for getting pissed at the risk of a crapstorm our way. Is it really enough?"

\- Screw it, I'm in, - Martin uttered.

"Hell yeah."

\- You really are my man, - Rico patted his arm.  
\- Okay, that was quick, - Preston shrugged.  
\- Anyway, there's keeping it reasonable, - Martin said. - Just a couple of glasses, and I'm going back to the barracks.  
\- Whatever, just throw the rope back out of the window when you're there. Rico and I want to have some sleep too. Meet us next to your barracks after firing drills.

* * *

As Martin breathed in the fresh and damp air, a drizzling rain gave him chills and pleasant shivers. Once in a minute or two, a faint, dry sound of thunder rolling reached him from afar. Mild sunlight was bursting through thick scattered clouds, and puddles sent sprinkles up every time Martin's foot landed on them, as a heavy sack full of bricks hit his back with every step. His race was almost over.

Previously, when he'd entered a shady-looking pub in an apartment block's basement with his new pals, Preston and Rick ordered "the usual". Ordering the same seemed natural, so Martin did just that. There was little chance he could know that his buddies were profound lovers of whisky, and since Martin didn't boast a lot of experience with spirits apart from several cans of beer on his seventeenth birthday, the sensation hit him hard.

\- The sack too hard on your poor ribs, Pres? - Rico shouted through the rain, which turned into the opposite of subtle rapidly.  
\- Bearing so far! Wanna take some off me? - Preston replied. - Do quit chatting, save your breath like Marty here.  
\- Oh I would stay mute if I were him!  


Hardly Preston and Rico had managed to carry Martin all the way back to the academy. Wisely deciding to look over his ascend to his block first, they'd anchored the rope. Martin made his way up to the fifth story bravely, and when an obstacle - a closed window - appeared in his way, he'd broken right through it. As the alarm went off in the entire academy territory, he crawled into somebody's abandoned bed and started to make himself comfortable. His pals discreetly joined the growing formation next to the barracks.

\- Should've known better than feed me that stuff, - Martin laughed desperately.  
\- Had I known, I'd feed you water for the rest the year, - Rico scowled, although managing to look funny through it anyway.

So when it surfaced that the source of the problem was an unidentified redhead cadet, Rico and Preston saved everybody's time by metting out what actually took place. The manifested camaraderie even allowed them to shorten their distance by as much as two miles. The sentry guard who'd helped cover it up kept silent though, so his race was solid thirty miles.

\- Alright, don't think I didn't get it yet. I must apologise, - Martin uttered.

Ricardo and Preston applauded and cheered loudly along with the sentry (his name was Robert).

\- I do apologise for exposing ourselves to all of this.  
\- The guy has his way with these words, - Preston snarked, referring to the same phrase Martin used in Jackson's office when giving explanations.

Jackson was predictably furious when made aware of what happened, and he was ready to kick Martin out then and there, disregarding the one mistake rule. The pleas of his pals helped quite a bit. They found it particularly noteworthy that Jackson didn't as much chew out the entire bunch for going AWOL as he reprimanded Martin for his blunder and letting the others down. Poor Martin was still only half-conscious through the whole ordeal. The smell of his own messed clothes, the furious look in his mentor's eyes, the experience of withstanding his penalty before fully returning into his usual self were more than enough for Ingwehr to give himself an oath to achieve exceptional success at the academy and never ever look at booze again.

\- Thanks for backing me up too, - Martin added. - You could've saved yourselves, but stood by my side anyway. I don't recall deserving it.  
\- Oh yeah, save yourself and end up like Bobby here, - Preston mumbled.  
\- Believe me, that wasn't about what you deserve, - Rico gave him a backhanded reassurance.

As the remaining distance approached somewhere near ten miles, the cadets resorted to speedy marching, since keeping jogging was beyond both reason and their capability. In spite of everything, it was safe to assume they wouldn't get any indulgence at the PFTs, and they could now leave their aspirations for fitness classes and just hope to drag through it in one piece. Martin showed somewhat fancier results than he'd expected. Rico got off easy, utilising both his physique and craftiness. Preston, to everybody's amaze, received a third class.

They were all looking forward to having some time for themselves, and they were to be rewarded very soon. As silly as their experience had been at times, it was still experience, and luckily, they knew better than getting completely eaten up by their blunders and mistakes. Wear has taken its toll, however, they did belong to a stubborn breed of people. How stubborn can one be? At the moment, "unlimited" seemed like the only possible answer.


	4. No Responsibility

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Former cadets of Jackson academy go to a party. Hard.

**No Responsibility**

Time had passed. Martin spend the majority of his time with his buddies, but nevertheless did not forget about his oaths. He'd made it his goal to become a high-ranking officer, whatever challenges that would put up for him. Sometimes he would admit to himself that his mind had often drifted off of the military-bred thinking, but he would barely start contemplating a different career when the benefits of his own way became immediately obvious. It was almost like an outside force had an intention to veer Martin off his path, and he, being a man of his word, found significant pleasure in countering its influence. He'd suppress any thought that it was too late to change his mind, since he couldn't stand the negative implication that he was, in fact, wrong. If what he did suited him well and he liked it, could it ever be wrong? Martin disregarded any possibility of that.

Preston helped him in improving his squad leader skills, serving mainly as Martin's friendly slave an hour a day. The uncosy incident from the past year didn't add much credibility into his file, but he never showed a sign of concern. His demeanor signalled total, somewhat unusual content with everything that would ultimately happen to him. Martin noted that although he knew Preston for long, he never knew him well. He would often remind himself to talk to Rico about his friend's motives, since Preston seemed unapproachable, even though social. But that never quite worked out, partially due to Rico choosing a combat engineer specialization and spending the majority of his day on classes. Rico would return to the barracks late in the evening and go to sleep almost immediately after.

The time to choose a branch of service was getting near. Cadets had a privilege to do that prior to graduation. Since Martin was now pretty much obligated to serve and looking at a lieutenant rank, it was a good idea to choose airbourne: the catastrophic lack of brilliant officers at that time was apparent. Martin confirmed his decision officially as early as in the beginning of his fifth year, to avoid overthinking it. Rico was offered an engineer's position in the airbourne, and he chose that as well. Preston, having little trouble, followed them two.

It's worth mentioning that Jackson's graduates were almost universally hated in the city's garrison, but predictably so. Draftees were scooped up from every corner of the country, assigned into whatever branch they could physically afford and then sent to a boot camp in the middle of nowhere for training. That didn't give them much incentive to like jacks, who had relative freedom over their contract in general, as well as location of further service, if they were lucky to have a special acquaintance to pull off the paperwork necessary. Martin was proud to understand that his position was the fruit of his very own hard work; nevertheless, he also understood how the other soldiers felt about it. Former cadets could start out as corporals at least, junior officers at best, depending on their performance throughout the years. They didn't always get the hang of all the feuds and rivalries, which inevitably took place everywhere at some point. They had to lead their squads to accomplish their tasks, disregarding the lack of actual experience, since that was fully expected of them. The dissonance between what was written in manuals and what was actually about to go on disturbed Martin deeply. Rico didn't share his concerns and was confident in his peers' abilities. He was rarely anxious about the future anyway.

As time went by, talks of the grand graduation ceremony started to spread around the academy halls. In spite of the grandeur and splendor commonly attributed to the ceremony, it was really a kind of celebration merciless to the city, which did its best to survive it. In a short span of time streets were full with jubilating young people in their best health and spirit. Jackson's Inebriation Corps, much like an animal unleashed, inflicted its joy upon the city in the most ruthless way. If a small pub's owner checked on his place the morning after and discovered broken windows and a cracked toilet seat, which blocked the door so that no one would find a telephone booth's wall in the loo, he considered himself rather easily out of the ordeal.

"Granted, we did _NOT_ pull ourselves through the five years of it in vain", Martin thought, "and I'm no less glad than anybody, but other ways to display it might bring more pleasure to the others, even if it means less for ourselves". In actuality, the main reason for the mayhem in question was the service, imminent for the majority of cadets. Naturally, the academy denied any responsibility for the cadets the second they stepped over its threshold, and the police wasn't too eager to send out additional patrolmen for the graduates to practice their martial arts. The grand graduation ceremony was the usual result of these little points made.

What has to happen, will. At last Martin found himself standing near the academy's front entrance. It was half past eight, and heavy drops of approaching rain hit him occasionally, powerless to draw away the excitement. Martin was wearing full dress uniform, insignia shining like tiny gold bars. Lack of decoration was carefully concealed with golden buttons on pocket flaps and an aiguilette. It was a full hour before the start of the ceremony. There was hardly anybody else around, but Martin didn't bother: he was used to spending time alone in his thoughts, and the memories on his mind were delightful. He didn't wander around the entrance too much before he saw Rico and Preston approaching casually.

\- Now this, this is a cool dress! - Rico gave him a wolf whistle, much to Martin's amusement. Noticing the wet stains, he added, - Don't tell me you've spent the night standing here.  
\- Won't miss the opening this way, - he smiled. - Our tiny plan for evening's confirmed?  
\- Ric's the only one who knows, - Preston shrugged. - He's sent me off to bed four hours earlier than usual, so he's up to something indeed.

Martin nodded with content. A lot of cadets have shown up, many surrounded by their family for some closure time before the commencement. The academy square was soon completely covered with a blanket of umbrellas as the rain gained strength. Finally, the bright and crisp sound of a bugle call put the hubbub to a halt. The cadets lined up in a perfectly shaped formation out of sheer habit, earning a good laugh of everybody else, and marched into the main building since the now full-force rain was making any kind of an announcement impossible outdoors.

The crowd managed to fit itself into the assembly hall, which was quite carefully decorated and somewhat rearranged compared to its usual state: a short podium now stood to the far side of the room, some garlands hanging on the walls around it. It was lit by antique light bulbs which gave everything a distinct and pleasant warm hue. Some fussing occurred near the windows as those thirsty for fresh air got through the crowd, but once that was settled, the yammer didn't go anywhere, and no wonder: at least several hundreds of graduates laughed and chatted loudly as they exchanged jokes and stories, all the discipline gone a moment too soon. Preston and Martin made their way closer to the podium, while the less lucky Rick got pushed right in front of a massive loudspeaker.

It wasn't too long before Jackson himself appeared on the podium. Martin couldn't help but notice just how the man had aged, all his wrinkles and rugged complexion made especially apparent by the bright lights, although Jackson did age gracefully: his appearance demanded not condescension, but respect. He stepped up to the microphone and spoke with voice as clear and lively as ever:

\- Dear graduates, may I have a word for you!

The sound rocked the room, but to little avail. Only a couple turned their heads to listen.

\- A second of your attention, please! I realise all the excitement, but...

As the noise kept on, Rico scratched the back of his head in faint worry. Preston patted him on the shoulder.

\- Liking the performance so far?  
\- Gotta save the old man. Speeches were never his thing.

Suddenly Preston felt he was pushed aside: it was Martin storming forward through the crowd. He hopped to the microphone next to slightly confused Jackson.

\- Just a couple minutes of patience, people, and the whole night is yours! Ain't a bargain? - he shouted. The place actually calmed down a bit for a moment, and Martin, taking advantage of it, promptly decided to give a performance of his own.

\- Some patience is the least we can show our mentors, who had the patience to put us through years of rigorous training, forging our might and wits, all of this time spent for our own prosperity!

Somebody giggled.

\- Was it all in vain? No! Look at us, former measly schoolboys and college brats, turned into the bravest, baddest, deadliest damn folk in the world!

Some cheering got over the noise.

\- Nobody has the guts to stand in our way as we guard our country like the meanest human guard dogs. All other men are fearful of fight, blood and death - we've been told fairy-tales of it at nights to fall asleep!

Preston leaned on the wall grinning, hands in pockets.

\- The entire world is in our hands, and we have the might to turn it inside out, since the embodiment of strength and power is what we've come to be.

Somebody shook their fist in the air menacingly.

\- The future belongs to us! May all our enemies perish in the fires of hell, and we'll be happy to pour in some gas! Jackson cadets are the most dangerous species in the world, and the ones who doubt rest underground!

Martin stepped away from the microphone, slightly frightened by the raw brutality of his own words, which he wasn't so sure fit the occasion. However, just a few seconds forward he had the pleasure to see a rhythmic chant emanate in the crowd, and the words very soon became intelligible. The graduates chanted "Semper fi!", getting louder each time and apparently giving no damn that they weren't the Marines after all. Martin picked a good moment to slip off the stage and rejoined his friends near the corner.

\- That's how you fire up a crowd, Marty! - Rico shook his shoulder. - And I've just discovered how did you spent the night, learning all that stuff by heart, yeah?  
\- Pure ad-lib, Ricky, fair and square, - he grinned.  
\- Don't be shy, you probably kept a crib note in your, uh, crib for three years straight. I'm gonna assume that no matter what you tell me.  
\- Ricky, I...  
\- Blah-blah-blah, - Rico covered his ears.  
\- So what do you think then, Pres? - Martin shifted his gaze.  
\- Doesn't matter. The town's getting ruined today, - he giggled. - Since the inspiration's over the top.  
Puzzled, Martin stood still for a split second.  
\- The entertainer bears no responsibility for actions taken after the event is finished! - he got his way out.  
\- Oh right, tell that in a police station after I take you there for extremist propaganda, - Preston chuckled.

Martin would be not entirely against continuing the argument using what scarce knowledge of the legal system he had, but Rico, no less stubborn than usual, convinced the friends to sneak out early while the halls were still not clamped, dress up and head out to execute Rico's mysterious plan. Jackson had already gotten to the part where he read surnames and corresponding outstanding achievements from a quite long list, and since none of the friends' families were there to get happy, the deal was sealed.

\- So?.. - Martin inquired as the three graduates approached the appointed meeting place. They were now technically outside Jackson's territory, standing where the entirety of the academy was visible nonetheless.  
\- So... - Preston began. In contrast to Martin, who'd left his uniform on, he changed to a pair of jeans, his beloved field jacket, which was admittedly both sturdy and comfy, and a gray beanie. It was getting colder outside.  
\- So we're headed to one neat bowling club where a lane will be free for us for a couple hours. I didn't miss by picking bowling, right? - Rico raised his brows innocently. Martin could recall Rico's very blunt inquiries about their favourite pastimes three weeks before. - Anyway, we're spending some time over there, and I have a surprise for you two once we get weary rolling balls. What? - he asked as Preston gave him an amused stare. - Betcha you're gonna like what you see.  
\- Is it a cake with a stripper inside? - Martin asked.  
\- As much as I like the idea, a cake that big won't fit in my backpack. Seriously though, the longer we wait into the night, the better, or people will stare.  
\- Massive pity. I like cakes. Cream, chocolate chips, sweet citrons and a crimson cherry on top, - Preston got closer and closer to Martin's ear as he whispered those words. - And let Marty have the stripper. Everybody has cake for the first time at some point, eh? - he winked. Martin couldn't hold the laughter.  
\- Well, if that's what you need most, - he shrugged. - Rick, I still do hope your surprise is not an RDX package. Remember that from this day on, I'm your sergeant and I'm responsible for everything you do or don't.  
\- That's why I'll make a point of giving you a heart attack, - Rico gave a smug grin. - Kidding; just testing out how steel your balls are.  
\- Look, over there, - Preston waved his hand. - Our fellas look alive.  
In fact, some indiscreet voices became audible, increasing in loudness.  
\- You wouldn't forget the presents now, would you? - Rico asked Martin, who just shook his handbag in answer, giving a menacing look to Preston in his usual unshaven state. The friends then exchanged a few gazes as if shrugging mentally, seeing great fun starting to erupt somewhere and not entirely against joining it, formed a small bunch and started their stroll towards the city centre, engaged in a meaningless, albeit shiningly hilarious conversation.

And great fun it indeed was growing to be. The city's boulevards, avenues and squares were seemingly full of former cadets: the confusing mixture of bright street lights, cheerful chatter, some particularly big families here and there, and apparent lack of pedestrians made it look like the graduates were so much more numerous. People joked that on this day the traffic was neither left or right side, but Brownian. The cadets walked away from the boulevard in little parties of three or four people. Colliding and fusing together, they soon became large groups, which then turned into formations suspiciously reminiscent of fire squads and blocked the road altogether, absorbing smaller bunches like amoebas do with bacteria. In fact, roads were blocked, but just as a redundant, more of a symbolic measure: Martin reasonably assumed that no car owner in his right mind would dare to go to a drive-in this evening. Few pedestrians that were still somehow on the streets hurried to get out of the way. Rico was even mildly vexed by the fact that everyone behaved like during an air raid on what actually was a celebration. Preston rolled with it and told him "Get used to that, there's little gratitude for defending them either." The few who complained about the noise were showered with some kind of litter instantly. Martin, catching an orange peel with his head, inquired how much was left to walk, and the moment he did, Rick took a turn into a back alley so dimly lit it seemed like night already. Preston looked around promptly, making sure nobody could hear him, and asked:

\- So anybody's seen the preliminary squad assignment list already? - Preston asked, hint of anticipation finally prominent in his voice. - I kind of didn't have time to find out.  
\- I didn't still, but had an eye-to-eye with the main commission, - Martin replied. - Briefly said, no issues there, we're all in the same platoon. AND the same squad!  
The three gave each other a fist bump with excitement and relief.  
\- The CO is some William Richmond, lieutenant, looks like a solemn guy, dead serious. He's a vet, not of just one war, and sure knows how to teach people things.  
\- Richmond, you said? I recall a Richmond pay a visit to the academy, that's the man? - Rico scratched the back of his head, remembering the third year. The most he could scoop up from his memory was thick salt-and-pepper hair on sides of the man's head, but nothing else significant. Martin nodded to confirm.  
\- Which means he's in our garrison. And I assumed he'd taken a leave at our place, - Preston also began to remember.  
\- Well, he did. He got transferred just half a year ago. Rumor is, he's almost beaten the approval out of high command. His spouse has a severe health problem, - Martin explained, earning bewildered stares from his friends. - What's wrong, I have to know who I'm serving with.  
\- Oh yeah, the ideal grunt sticks his curious head everywhere he can, - Preston mumbled.  
\- You've just described our intelligence's function in entirety, - Martin smirked.  
\- On subject of curiosity, why's the man in his fifties still a lieutenant? - Rico scratched his chin. - At this age, you either go up or retire.  
\- Welp, the intelligence failed me here, - Martin shrugged. - It's possible he was demoted when a discharge wasn't an option. But hey, ask him out for a cup of coffee and interrogate him all you want, cause people love talking about their career issues.  
Rico nodded so obediently that Martin for a moment regretted giving him the snarky advice.  
\- The meeting time's unchanged? - Preston asked.  
\- No, the plan's still in power. We're to gather at the garrison stationing at nine hundred tomorrow, - Martin said as he stopped to look around. The party was now standing at the edge of a relatively quiet promenade, bright with the neon signs. After making their way along an awfully ruined road, they ended up under a sign that read "O'Donnelly's bowling alley".  
\- So, uh, do it right here? - Rico asked anxiously.  
\- I'm all hands up, we won't hear ourselves with the music inside, - Martin nodded. Preston shrugged, and his friend, caressing his ginger hair, extracted a neatly wrapped and decorated package signed "Preston Reacher", from his handbag.  
\- There goes the present number first! - Rico proclaimed. The recepient took the package, unwrapped it eagerly and got his hand inside. Momentarily a confused expression appeared on his face. He pulled out a small wooden handle, rigid hairs extending from one of its ends.  
\- Marty, Rick, I no doubt appreciate your unpredictability, but had I wanted a painting brush, I'd go to a kindergarten and steal one from my toddler friends, - he took a second look at the handle, encompassed in what looked like a silver ring with a delicate ornament. The sign "Silvertip" was carved into the bottom.  
\- This "painting brush" cost me almost an entire wage, - Rico frowned. - And it looks more like a shaving brush to me.  
\- A handmade badger hair shaving brush, - Martin nodded.  


The expression on Preston's face changed from disbelief to almost childlike happiness as he pulled out a fine safety shaving razor ("A closer shave is only your own bald head!"), a dozen packs of blades ("Doctor Wagner's blades: any more sharp - and it's a murder! Sharper blades - sharper look!"), a piece of "Geyser" shaving soap in a wrap ("Geyser soap - just as many bubbles!") and a bottle of cologne with suddenly no brand at all.

\- Thing is, Rico once told me about your little problem, - Martin explained. - Really, Preston? Won't shave since sixteen because of measly skin rash?  
\- But it ruins my mug like you can't imagine! - Preston bit the edge of the vacuum packaging on the blades. - Ich wash like thish: drag a blage acrosh the cheeck, and you got pimplesh all over ich...  
The packaging finally yielded, and the tiny chrome plate fell outside. Preston caught it in his fist instinctively, but regretted it in an instant. Deciding to not tempt fate with his package anymore, he threw everything in his own shoulder bag, postponing sorting it out.  
\- Really though, thinking back, the damn dots looked like targets on a range. I was wise to not shave, dull blades, microbes and all.  
\- Right, so there's the barber's essentials set for you, - Martin said and quickly added, - and careful with the blades, yeah, those are the most evil sons of guns we could find.  
\- Probably cost a fortune. Don't know how to thank you, - Preston licked his palm in an attempt to hide drops of blood.  
\- Yes you do, don't play a booby! Let's see what you've got for me... - Rico snatched his package signed "Ricardo Moren" right out of Martin's hands and proceeded to destroy the wrapping. Very soon a large sturdy case was unearthed. Rico put it on the tarmac sideways, not knowing what to do with it next.  
\- Preston, am I making a mistake assuming that during his time in the academy Rico took engineering courses with outstanding perseverance? - Martin asked.  
\- Why yes, and as a result of his scrupulous work he earned the mechanic's specialization. Me and Martin...  
\- Martin and I, - Rico said, still staring at the case.  
\- _Me and Martin_ connected the dots and decided that you're a mechanic engineer. (Rico took his time to look at Preston in awe of his induction skills.)  
\- In order to enable you to exhibit excellent performance in any conditions that the real warfare situation may present you with, _me and Preston_ chose to present you with this fine collection of mechanic stuff, - now that Rico'd figured out how to undo the clamps, Martin kicked the case gently for it to open and reveal a set of tools, which fell out rapidly and formed a tall pile. It really seemed like one could build a spaceship, fly to Mars and house a colony there with just those tools, hence it's not very meaningful to go and explain in great detail what exactly was in the case.  
\- It's not a scam, Rick, - Preston reassured, - every tool is made to last at least two decades while you use it every day. Though from the sheer looks of it, I'd give it triple that time.  
\- Whoa there, I never intended to serve for that long, - Rico laughed. - But let's see if the looks prove themselves.

He thrusted his hand into the metallic pile to randomly pull out a petite rubber hammer.

\- Fierce luck, Rico! Just mad luck! - Preston exclaimed.  
\- I'd bet my house Rico will chop a tree off with this rubber monster before it breaks. Or, you know, Rico's patience runs out, - Martin played along.  
Rico scowled and hit the bowling alley's wall with everything he could. To everybody's amazement, some chips of paint rained from above and Rico could almost see what looked like a crack in the wall.  
\- Barbarian, - Martin muttered, covering his face with his hand.  
\- Supergood inventory you've got for me, people. Though lacks a hadron collider for what it's worth, - Rico started gathering the tools by simply scooping them up from the ground with the case.  
\- I kinda wanted to include one, though it wouldn't fit for some reason, - Preston confessed and giggled, whispering to himself "Rico's hard-on colliders".  
\- To hell with it, let's go in already! I'm up for a game now! - Rico headed towards the entrance, but Martin's hand stalled him.  
\- Didn't you forget about somebody?  
Rico gave Martin a gaze that made him feel like it was _him_ who was actually in the wrong.  
\- Do you really think that half a year of thoughtful planning and scrupulous execution will vanish in vain? - he asked and, feeling that he'd seen enough of confused Martin today, added, - Don't you ever worry, I'm not letting you off today without a gift. My surprise actually IS your gift.  
He started descending the steep stairs into the bowling alley's room. Friends had nothing left to do but to follow suit.

* * *

A couple of hours had passed. Possibly more - between the bowling lane, a frosty mug of lager and a cheerful company Preston wouldn't keep track of time. The dimly lit hall consisted of two rooms - the bowling alley itself, with some coffee tables between the lanes, while the other room contained something reminiscent of a pub. Martin was completely content with Rico's choice. The gin mill, albeit not looking too tidy, had relatively few patrons, who mostly minded their own business behind the bar counter, so there was no way the quiet buzz and laughter could bother the friends. The music from loudspeakers above their heads allowed a quiet enough conversation. Friends captured a cosy little corner next to the leftmost lane and a table with a sofa, taking turns to make their move. In the first half an hour "Ricardo" steadily held itself at the top of the score chart: Rick turned out to be excellent at "launching spheres into wooden objects in straight lines", as Martin, thoroughly frustrated, described the act. Even so, the concept of the game was a bit new to him.

\- So I take it kids in Charleston only ever play croquet and hide-and-seek? - Rico said after his ball easily brought him one of numerous strikes.  
\- Tag and hide-and-seek, actually, - Martin corrected, - and very smartly so. It's not just waving hands and... spam balls in hopes to win. (Preston began giggling). Did you know that people who excelled at hide-and-seek (Preston was now laughing profusely) are more likely to develop superior tactical thinking and quick decision making skills?  
As Martin spoke, his ball slowly drifted off course, and he continued in a more upset manner:  
\- Did you know that might be the reason I'm the sarge and you're the corporal?  
His ball disappeared somewhere in the void of the side of the lane, and he, head down like a sad Tom from the cartoons, gave way to Preston.  
\- At least you make it sound it sound interesting, buddy, - he said as he picked the ball weight. - Well, you make ruck marches sound exciting, so...  
To piss Martin off further, he was in fact referring to Rico, who, during ruck marches, would always yell things like "Only five hundred steps to the north, and the treasure shall be right below us! Pick up your pace, you jolly rollers!". By the end of the studies, he'd earned "Rick Eagle's Beak" alias from his friends and "Rick Eagle's Bum" from the few foes he had.

In spite of Preston and Rico's honest attempts at teaching Martin the proper technique of playing, the poor fellow just kept missing or getting a split.  
\- You were watching close? So watch even more closely! - Rico yelled.  
\- I couldn't watch closer if I had a sniping rifle in my hands, Rico, and you know what? It seems like a desirable item until you stop mocking and start teaching! - Martin answered.  
\- We don't need no... edukayshun... - Preston, already feeling the effects of beer downed through the hours.  
\- Here - a step for acceleration, another step - the hand goes back, drop on your knee and just let the hand waive like a spaghetti, Mr. Isaac Newton and his laws will ensure your win! - Rico exclaimed and hurried to demonstrate just that. The console lit brightly with "+8" next to Rico's name. Martin observed the digit carefully, as if getting some information from it, and once again took position in the centre and started rocking his arm back and forth.  
\- No. No. No. Try jogging towards the lane a bit next time, sarge, - Rico spoke calmly, knowing what happens next. Martin, however, managed to make two steps while raising his arm so high it was almost on the level with his head, and up the ball went, hitting the polished surface of the lane hard and continuing its way rather slowly, giving Martin a score of 3.  
\- Either you're high, or your arm's high, - Rico noted.  
\- Another training of this sort, and we're working as polishers for free, - Preston said, taking Martin's place. Despite having made numerous turns, he again took his time to choose a ball properly, picked just the distance for acceleration, stood in silence a bit, ball tucked under chin, made five steps, half-flying between them, then just released the ball effortlessly.  
\- Well yeah, you can also neglect my precious advice and do it like Pres here, gaining speed from legs, not arms, - Rico turned away in his chair, as if taking great umbrage, just to turn to watch Martin again.  
He shrugged and walked all the way to the opposite wall of the hall. Preston made a point by covering his ears, like preparing for a big boom. Martin ducked, waiting for something, and made a triple jump to yet be repeated to the lane, throwing the ball like Michael Jordan would.  
\- Or maybe stop taking everything so seriously, - Rico mumbled.  
The ball reached the end of the lane in a gorgeous looking curve, and at the same time the console's speaker shouted: "Strike!"  
\- Can't believe it and... what's that? - Preston frowned. In the console's slot there was a ticket signed " **A MUG OF LAGER** ". - That's my kind of game, - Preston smiled, snatched it and ran off to use the ticket as it was meant to be.  
\- Now witness the master's right hooked ball! - Rico exclaimed. He spent a portion of time positioning his hand with the ball for some kind of a handshake, then yanked it up and outwards, simultaneously spinning slightly on his heel. The ball immediately took the wrong direction and was seemingly ready to get stuck in the lane's right side, but then in an apparently impossible course of events made a wild curve right to the centre of the formation. Rico clenched his fists in anticipation, but all of a sudden the lane lights turned off and the console showed that the time was up.  
\- Dammit... Hey, Marty, what's the time? - Rico asked with disappointment, stepped away from the lane and fell right into his chair, looking like no Newton's force could lift him again.  
\- Twenty three hundred. Exactly, - Martin gave a look to the gigantic clock under the ceiling. - That's some kind of cosmical precision.

The crimson digits of final scores (Moren, undoubtedly, 182), gave way to a TV news broadcast.

\- ...which means that it's evening news on AIB, - the upper half of a familiar newsman appeared on the screen. - And perhaps the most important event today is, as you probably have heard, a major commotion at Euronext stock exchange. Its reasons are reported to be a severe drop in stock prices of Union Aerospace Corporation. There is information about similar situations on NASDAQ, Moscow and Tokyo stock exchanges.  
A video broadcast came in. A two-hundred crowd of men in perfectly similar shirts scurried across the room and wrote something into their notepads frantically, as if that would get them out of their financial pit.  
\- Independent financial experts are working at precisely figuring out the causes of the event at the moment. Shortly before though they made a statement that this may very well be the beginning of collapse in space technology. There are rumours that the decrease in dividend will inevitably lead to stock owners getting rid of them to just make the crise scenario more probable, if no appropriate measures are taken. Thomas Dietrich, president of UAC, has refused to give any commentary.  
\- Thank you sir, now please in plain English, what were you trying to tell, because it makes as much sense as a bubble gum, - Rico snapped at the TV.  
\- Yet thinking about it, but the taxes are going to increase, - Martin grinned. - Seriously though, I think I'd heard of the corporation before.  
\- Some kind of geologists, - Rico shrugged. - Making holes in Mars for ten years or so, seeking for minerals.  
\- Intriguing.  
\- Believe me, it's not. Well, if it was, I'd have remembered more when I was told about it during my courses.  
\- Now are there actually any minerals on Mars? - Martin asked. - I mean, that are meaningful to spend more resources to extract and deliver them?  
\- Since there are operations there, must be about something, - was Rico's answer. He obviously just didn't know anything else on the topic, but Martin had some kind of excitation that maybe carried over to him from not-so-sober Preston and had a desire for a conversation like never before.  
\- In fact, nobody knows much about this corp, - Rico wasn't finished yet. - It's a subsidiary of Rheinmetall, supplies somebody with something, - he raised his hands, - that's all, folks.  
\- Must be holding a monopoly then, - Martin mumbled.  
\- De-facto? Yeah. I remember they have some lot of branches, but the structure is dazzling, more complex than Preston's DNA. Just a bit more complex. Ever so slightly, - he added when he saw Preston wave a hand near the bar counter, back turned to them, in acknowledgement of their conversation. - So let's give the guys a break. Since they're already broke.

They laughed quite loudly as a groomed man with prominent calvity on the TV spoke nervously about "impending hordes of various speculators", which got him thoroughly carried away despite the show host begging to hurry.

\- I still feel like this kind of mining is a waste, at least with the current level of tech. Colonization is a much better prospect in the long run! - Rico asserted. - No headaches about free space on Earth for three centuries or more.  
Martin couldn't help but giggle, imagining the first crew of colonists being forced into sinister looking starships with Rico's proud face painted on their uniforms, broadsheets signed "Colonise my colons!" in their hands.  
\- So you're neglecting the expenses to deliver necessary resources from Earth, - he said, trying to steer his friend's mind off the idea.  
\- You're presuming the use of starships, - Rico said. - But if we use Earth as a backup station and send resources towards Mars beforehand...  
\- And then develop the technology that will allow the colonists to chase that ship and dock with it... - Martin continued, quickly inspired.  


Preston watched them from some distance with a smile. His quest of getting a free mug of lager put him in an unpleasant position between several filthy, mucky drunks. Getting the mug empty coincided with him getting full of their dull banter, and he was glad to hurry to his friends when, amidst his walking, a drunken man dropped to the ground right before his feet like a carpet, almost making Preston stumble as well. He was dressed in an obsolete greasy sailor uniform and a field cap. The man, however, regained composure rather quickly, got his cap on, gave a scowling look in Preston's face and suddenly offered his hand for a handshake.

\- Oo-ah to the Air Force! - he yelled, earning the completely non-sequitur choir of approval from the rest of the crowd. - Well, that's you people celibating around ere, right? - another wave of laughter emerged.  
He stood groggily and was hard to comprehend. Lager or not, that wasn't a desirable conversation partner for Preston.  
\- Right, - he shook his hand dryly and was just about to continue his way when same hand fell on his shoulder heavily, stopping him.  
\- Wait, hey, I'm still ere! - the man started following Preston in the same groggy walk. - Tell me the stories! Tell me bout your battles! Tell me bout that untidy little incident with your daddy...  
He giggled along with the whole bar. It didn't take long for Preston to figure out who was the main clown in the place.  
\- Oh yeah, that one where he spun your mommy on his grill stick like a fine turkey on the 4th of July? - he retorted, in hopes of shutting him down, and was moderately successful. - Come on, get a grip on yourself, anybody except me in fact, and go catch some 'z's in a guesthouse, cause my dad ain't finished yet.  
\- Woah, a badass! Watch out, everyone! - he threw his hands up in mock terror, to usual amusement of his audience. - Things you say, little sass, I'll go home and give your dad a punishment, - the sailor started getting angry. Preston thought - and he wasn't mistaken - he'd noticed something glitter under the sailor's, or whoever the hell he actually was, jacket.  
\- Oh, think he's ready for round two? - Preston whispered, smirk wide on his face.

The man's posture signalled an imminent threat; however, after gazing at Preston like they were in a stare contest (he lost), he fell on the chair conveniently under his bottom and returned to drinking. Preston looked at his own pumped veins. He needed a refill.

\- So what if you serve? I was in the Army Navy too... - the drunk's rambling went on. - Four years of my fucking life I coulda spent like today, every day.  
\- Little good for your kidney, - Preston murmured.  
\- Ah, shut up, - the man moaned apathetically. He was apparently getting at something. - I was a corporal, just like you.  
"How did he know?"  
\- I'm not a corporal. I'm a lance general fourth class.  
\- Yah well, whatever the fuck that was, I was just like you. Guess what, I fuckin' liked half the stuff there, except brooms, freckles and armpits.  
Now it was only Preston who laughed out loudly.  
\- So they found you making friends with another guy in controls room?  
\- No! - he slammed his mug on the table, and it was then that Preston noticed the lack of pinky and ring finger on the sailor's right hand. - A big fucking gun's barrell tried to make friends with my hand when a guy on the controls fucked up. After two months of agony in hospital, when the hand was finally alright, I beat that shitbag's face to a red pulp.  
Woah went the bar. Preston frowned. He was prominently a strong and silent type, but that night he wasn't the only one drunk as well!  
\- Makes you a shitbag worse, - he muttered. - People get their legs ripped off. Not everybody destroys something afterwards, makes a fallen hero of himself and drowns himself in beer and self-pity, making disgusting daddy jokes.  
\- And you're just like the rest of em. Make me look for some fucking respect my way for this, - he raised his disfigured hand in the air, making a point. - Nobody in the damn world is interested what I deserve! \- After what you'd done, you knew nobody would, - Preston hissed, getting angry much beyond his usual behaviour.  
\- Shut your mouth, you dickhead, I'm sick of it! You got a choice of two: lick my boot and apologise and hope my mood's alright after how much upset you've made me, or eat my boot and sleep in the dumps today!  
\- Alright, choose.  
\- Wha? - the drunk staggered.  
\- Choose from the two, you silly, - Preston giggled like a schoolboy, and when he saw the man's left hand clench in a fist and fly towards his face in an awful haymaker attempt, he met it with his forearms, locked the man's wrist firmly and after one vigorous strike of his forehead on the bar counter it was all over. Or was it? The appropriate phrase is "it was enough". Preston, though, was painfully obviously not himself. His rage bordered on outright madness. He yanked the drunk's wrist once again, making his forehead hit where several drops of blood have already appeared on the bar counter, then made a full turn, hitting the man's body under his knees and dropping it to the floor violently. No less than a dozen punches landed on his face and gut. When the defenseless drunk attempted to capture Preston's arm and bite it, he used the momentum, crawled under the man and choked him. Quarter a minute later, it was really all over. The drunk was snoring, quite peacefully to an outsider.

When a pair of bulky security guards arrived on the scene, they didn't investigate too thoroughly. After asking a few questions to witnesses, they parted with Preston as friends and left through the bar's back door, carrying the sleeping drunk away. Preston, however, didn't hurry so much: a band of four tough-looking fellows behind a table in the corner attracted his attention. After making sure the security was gone, they looked each other in the eyes and left the table, approaching Preston in a way that blocked him between them and the bar counter. He stared at them seemingly unfazed.

\- Did he upset you? - one of them asked.  
\- Who's 'he'? - Preston asked in turn.  
\- Our friend, - the other fellow started talking. - So what the hell happened? Did he upset you? Hit your head with a brick? Or made a pass? Asked for a quickie in the loo? What the hell happened?  
\- Predicting things like that, you seem to have properly screwed up friends, - Preston noted.  
\- Somebody is really going to get screwed now though.  
Preston shrugged.  
\- I don't know when you started observing, but if your eyeballs grow from the right place, you would have seen your friend attacking me. I calmed him down, nothing personal.  
The fellows looked at each other yet again. The first then continued:  
\- That's not an excuse for the treatment you gave him. In fact, you don't have any. We're okay with that, you fucked with a guy who's important in some circles you didn't know, that happens. But to make you less carefree, we have to teach you a lesson in an other way than verbal.  
Preston, who could hardly uphold his facade by now, finally broke it in a fit of loud laughter.  
\- Listen, pal, if you want to brawl, I can help you with that, just make me sure it'll be a one-on-one. But I suggest you four leave me alone, I've been practicing judo for a month and half now and I can defend myself. Your excuse is worth less than the field cap on his head.

The four eyed each other, wondering whether the naughty guy before them had a 9mm surprise in his pocket. However, Preston's guess proved right: one of them hissed a curse and raised his hand for a jab. Preston made a quick step to the side, and the man's fist met the wooden counter. He yelled in pain. The others gasped in surprise, and many speculations can be done on who would win that fight, if not for...

\- Hey, muchachos!

Somebody's tan arm turned one of the guys around and a punch of formidable force knocked him on the ground, dislocating his jaw. He was now lying, utterly baffled by the unexpected assault. Preston noticed Martin and Rico with the edge of his eye, and that was all he had to know.

Using the bar stand to propel himself, he pushed one of the thugs away from the circle, clapped on his ears and took him down, elbowing him in the face and holding the legs. One quick kick in the kidneys later Preston was over with that one. He hurried to help his friends out.

Rico fought in the manner he and only he could pull off. He wore his foes down with quick and unpolished, but demolishing strikes and knocked them down once he'd seen a window in defense. He would use everything: knees, surrounding pieces of interior, he hit in places which hurted most and never let anybody grapple him. However, once a big guy he was fighting now got tired of trying to land just one strike on Rico, he pushed forward and got them both lying on a table, Rico under him. A knife appeared before Rico's eyes.

\- Marty, they have blades! - he shouted, catching the thug's hand, getting his leg over his head and applying the best armbar since he got into Jackson academy. The broken joint popped loudly.

And there was Martin, moving like a butterfly, or just a fly. He used his agility to unleash so many punches that a pair of foes on him just couldn't keep track, and that got him his window in defense.

\- Blades, Marty! Break contact!

One of the thugs got tackled by Preston. Adrenaline pumped through Martin's veins once he'd heard the news. A quick series of strikes - neck, eyes, liver, ear, kick to groin, to the knee - got his opponent to the ground, and a kick to the back of his head finished the day for him. Now that Martin could finally look around himself, he saw chaos in the bar that was a peaceful haven just a minute before. Everybody was fighting someone.

\- Time to get out, people! - he shouted.

They got outside through the front door and sprinted along the alley. At first they had a tail of several drunks who didn't get enough, but that problem dealt with itself. Soon all of them were down on the ground. The friends soon got to a bus stop. Preston jumped inside of a luckily present bus and shouted:

\- Step on the pedal!

Martin flew in; Rico followed, kicking one of the pursuers in the chest, and after the doors closed, the ordeal was finally over. The friends sighed with relief, sitting on seats under a large sign "FOR DISABLED, ELDERLY AND SCHOOLCHILDREN".

\- That was fun, - Preston said melancholically.  
\- You were fun, Pres - Rico rebutted. - How did all that even start?  
\- Shit happens. I had no choice, people were looking for trouble and got it. Are you implying that was all me?  
\- Oh no, not that. Definitely their fault. Those judo students, - Rico squinted slyly. - One-on-one action.  
\- Stop it.  
\- Half a year practice.  
\- You heard that, I get it, come on.  
\- Just doing a vexed Preston impression, nevermind me.  
A long pause followed. Martin got out of his coat to check if any damage was done.  
\- Crap, they ripped my aglet off, - he mumbled meekly.  
\- Woah, Martin can't have kids now! - Rico and Preston shouted in unison.  
\- Not THAT aglet. Seriously now, I'll have to find a new one somewhere tomorrow. Even if I have to give birth to it.  
\- Now that'd be a kid, - Preston murmured.  
Martin wisely decided not to make any point about his uniform. Rico stared out of the window with dreamy eyes and exclaimed a minute later:  
\- Still, that looked classy! We were cool, Hollywood-cool.  
Preston sighed.  
\- You kicked their asses dragon style.  
\- What's that? - Martin inquired.  
Rico promptly explained that anybody could fight in dragon style if they swing their legs "like a crazy cancan dancer".  
\- Though I really don't know how dragons are related, - he then shrugged.  
\- Dragons don't exist, Rico, - Preston said.  
\- Damn, and I worshipped those guys, - Martin hung his head in fake despair.

The conversation went on in this manner for several minutes, and when the ocean of trees visible in windows finally gave way for what looked like Jackson city lights, Rico told the driver to stop there. The friends got out and into a sparse grove, ankle-deep in dead leaves.

\- Martin's present is hidden right here somewhere, - Rico explained.

After passing a large ditch, they walked along a thin track. Rico was now trying to see something in tree branches above. When Martin got to explaining that the sheer mass of a dragon's skeleton wouldn't let it fly, he finally said:

\- There it is! - he then jumped, clinged onto one of a little tree's branches and picked up an olive gun cover. Soon a standard academy's fire practice rifle was undraped, something embedded in its stock.  
\- Rico, if you made us tag along all the way just to show that you've carried a weapon out from the academy territory, I'm not happy in the slightest, - Martin said. - You know how the...  
\- All due respect, Mart, - Rico raised his hand, - let me say a damn word to explain. I got it all settled with an instructor, he won't tell anybody. And just forget about the gun for a sec.

With these words he unattached a small device from the gun's stock. The device looked like an ancient pager, but apart from that it had a collection of little sensors of different colors, a tiny keyboard and a Picatinni rail mount installed on it.

\- This masterpiece is the autonomic real-time ballistic calculator with a displaying module! - Rico proudly proclaimed, holding the device up to show it. - Made by my very hands. That was a project for the engineering specialization.

He pressed a button on the back. A little display lit up in mild blue light. A menu there required to input information about the rifle's scope. Rico began to type in the needed numbers.

\- Ballistic, huh? - Martin was thrown back by the spectacle. - You're saying that little box...  
\- ...will determine the distance to the target, take environment-dependent stuff into account, model the bullet's trajectory and project the recommended aiming point onto the scope, - Rico continued. Martin accepted the rifle from his hands and examined a little extension on the scope that did the projecting, smirking when he saw what was obviously a headphone cable making all the connections. He then raised the rifle, some suspicion left in him, and looked into the scope. Rico reattached the calculator, plugged the cord in, and a little red dot appeared to Martin.  
\- A collimator, - he concluded and threw Preston a confused look. Preston could only raise hands, apparently seeing the device for the first time now.  
\- Now let's power the sensors up, - Rico pressed a couple more buttons, and the collimator shook briefly and shifted down and to the left. Martin raised the barrel slowly - the dot went lower and lower. In about a hundred meters, between the trees there was a light human-looking figure, which turned out to be a mannequin.  
\- Found 'em? - Rico asked impatiently.  
\- Oh yeah, some man in white clothes, - Martin said, attempting to scare Rico. - I'll take him out now...  
He inserted a bullet and closed the bolt. Preston knelt next to Martin to look at the calculator more closely.  
\- Does it take the air pressure into account too? - he asked.  
\- Sure thing, if you specify the height.  
Preston hemmed.  
\- What about the Coriolis force?  
\- What about the what what? - Rico was surprised with the notion.  
\- A-alright then, your project doesn't qualify! - Preston grinned smugly. While Rico was remembering what there was about the force, he blew lightly into the calculator's sensors, immediately earning Martin's surprise:  
\- Rico, you sure it's stable? The collimator's just disappeared completely for a moment there.  
Rico was preoccupied with silently uttering the definition of the Coriolis force to himself, so Martin shrugged and pulled the trigger. A wet, full sound of the shot rocked the forest. Martin, keeping his eye at the scope, whistled:  
\- Bullseye.  
\- I didn't invent ballistics, - Rico proclaimed, - I merely made it convenient.  
\- Sound like a motto then, - Preston laughed, accepting the rifle from Martin. - Ballistics in every house, every day!  
He stood in full height, spreading legs widely.  
\- Sure your hands don't mind the liquor you downed? - Martin teased.  
\- You don't know the half of me, commander.  
Preston exhaled and pulled the trigger lightly. A quiet click followed. He cursed, reloaded and once again pulled the trigger. Another shot echoed through the forest.  
\- Well here, - he said and handed the rifle over to Martin.  
\- Where? - Martin asked, looking into the scope.  
Preston held the barrel up with his hand, and it was then that Martin saw a hole in the mannequin's head.  
\- You convinced me today, smug snake, - he whispered.  
\- So, uh, this calculator, Marty, is yours, - Rico said. - There's just one, for the time being. And when this thing saves your life for one of the numerous times...  
He winked.  
\- ...you know whom to thank.  
Martin smiled and put the calculator in his inner pocket.  
\- Well, are we finished here? - he added later, after cleaning his coat of fallen leaves, damp from the past rain. The friends were now even, so the last excuse to stay in the forest was gone. City lights flickered through the trees, and the company walked along the track to the heart of fun.

There, far from the academy's part of town and watchful eyes of mentors, the last remnants of good conscience and resemblance of a school's graduation party were gone. The cadets had a special talent of creating presence with relatively small numbers. If a bunch of jacks entered a bar, it went over to their reign momentarily: they just filled the room completely. Their activities included, but weren't limited to: dancing on empty wine barrels, attempting to buy the bar with two ten-dollar bills, explaining the mechanism of a turn-bolt to a patron and demanding to retell it by heart, and so on. This time, when a particularly unlucky news correspondent tried to approach the graduates with questions about their opinion about service and duty, his cap went off and became the ball for several cadets to play volleyball in an alley, and the correspondent himself got seated into a manhole and asked lots of questions about his opinion about journalism ("hate the goddamned labour") and his duty ("couldn't care less").

After walking around the city just to see that every decent place was either closed, under cadets' control or both, the friends decided to call it a day and seek for a quiet place to spend an hour or two in before looking for an inn to sleep. Their legs carried them to a two-storey building that looked like one of the abominations of city landlords, where the first story was typically filled with a bistro, or a supermarket, or a barber shop, and the second usually contained a cheap apartment block, but sometimes, looking for some extra income, they built a place that was neither a club nor a pub, but something in between. That was the place that the friends walked up to, along extremely narrow outside stairs.

Sticking in from the door just as narrow, they saw a half-empty... something, walls decorated with an abundance of posters, both about dancing and things distant from it. Lights could induce epilepsy in a healthy man, and the speakers blasted two decades old music, which was often called "the OST to the economic crisis". Otherwise, the room looked like there was really nothing worth mentioning.

\- Here we are, - Rico mumbled. - As far from the ruckus as possible, yeah?  
\- At least nobody seems to pick a fight, - Preston said. - Actually, I was just following Mart here.  
\- I walked in the same direction as Rico, - Martin rebutted.  
\- And I headed where Preston was, - Rico added, thus saying the last word in this argument.  
The friends shrugged synchronously.  
\- Alright then, stay if you wish, but I've got a plan yet, - Rico said and walked up to a small gambling table, where several girls were busy with cards. He started a conversation like a man who does it a thousand times a day, sat down and began to shuffle the deck.  
\- The Barbarossa plan then, - Martin muttered.  
\- This sob will leave the girls with empty pockets before the sun rises, - Preston said. - When we barely knew each other, he'd almost stripped me of everything once I'd offered him to play some poker. I was a patron of the pawn shop for a week afterwards.  
\- So strip poker, was it? - Martin asked, pretending to not have heard, to Preston's amusement. - Anyway, he could've just forgotten the debt, you know.  
\- The stakes were too high.  
Preston yawned again, opening his mouth enough to bite somebody's head off.  
\- Know what, I'm broke completely, - he said, finding a cozy place on a low couch next to the corner. - Lend me your attire?  
Martin chuckled and took his coat off for Preston to immediately use it as a blanket. The sargeant sat next to him, shut his eyes and fell fast asleep, in spite of the loud music.


End file.
